“Among the producers of “Holler if Ya Hear Me” is Afeni Shakur, Tupac Shakur’s mother; Eric L. Gold, a television producer (“The Wayans Bros.”); and Shin Chun-soo, a prominent theater producer in South Korea.”—The NY Times on “Holler if Ya Hear Me,” a new musical inspired by the works of Tupac Shakur.
I told you I wasn’t coming home for Christmas and you had a ticket booked for New York within a week. I don’t get it. HOW WERE WE NOT MARRIED LIKE, TEN YEARS AGO??? Well……..you have a very strict no-tswift policy and something about my stomach and your height…
In the wake of the worst everythings ever, I imagine you’ll roll in on a donkey with people laying out palms branches leading up to my doorstep. You will probably cry. This is the closest we’ll ever get to that communal LA dream house that, if the five of us were to ever get into the same school, would’ve still never happened. So if we screw this up I will never forgive us. I’m going to complain like I hate life more than I actually do and if it’s anything below fifty, you’re going to have to drag me outside kicking and screaming but know for the next two weeks, there is really, really no other place I would rather be. Time to go to bed and not wake up for the next two days so I can be as perky and you’ll be, come 6AM, cause you’re strange like that. Don’t forget the shoes.
“Last night I went to bed at 1:30 and got up this morning at 9:15, just enough time to get to Terry Gross at NPR. I love Terry Gross to death. One of my favorite journalism moments is her versus Gene Simmons. He’s trying to do his usual shock shtick and she hung in there like a champ. It was Muhammad Ali against George Foreman, Rumble in the Jungle. He was arrogant and tried to bully her and she would stick him and lunge and move away. I don’t mess with Terry Gross.”— Questlove in an interview with Paper Magazine (via wbezmusic)
Hoping that not nearly as many people fall in love with you this time around. Things get complicated when you’re gone and it’s harder for me to convince everyone that I’m the bigger deal. In any case, I realize that you have quite the fan base here so can you tell NO BODY that you’re coming cause I hate sharing but I hate being second best even more (except I already told everyone cause I got too excited). I forget that you’re not coming here forever but the anticipation sure feels like it, like it does every time and I’ll go into my thirty days of mourning when you leave, like I do every time.
We always make a fuss about not actually sharing blood (although we do share a very erratic B-ness) but imagine how creepy this would be if we actually did. I mean, this is still pretty creepy but it could always be creepier. Also, if we were of the same womb, we’d have to give up either your mom’s cooking or my mom’s clothes and that is a negotiation I am not willing to participate in.
It’s ironic because this name owes itself entirely to one of our last jokes together. We had just eaten dinner together after one of our useless late-night classes and were walking over to my place to read the New York Times cause those were precisely the type of evening activities we did then. The formerly esoteric, long coveted list of things only I knew — your spirit and humor, confidences and doubts, your different faces and their meanings— is now undoubtedly abridged since the days of your punctual post-party visits and weird inkling towards Chinese documentaries. And so I hated that over time I had to share you with the rest of the world but I’ll still selfishly hold onto those first budding sweet moments that still remain solely to me and maybe they will mean something someday. I have twice tried to refill your company and have twice failed precisely because of that awful weakness that you and I share in one version or another. In the midst of everyone finally beginning to realize how completely extraordinary you are, I almost forgot how indispensably important you were and are to me.
We’ve been called conceited, stubborn, narrow-minded, foul, hypocritical, arrogant, elitist. Supposedly we assume everyone who is not us has lived lesser lives………..and they are absolutely correct.
We assume we have the sweetest memories, the unluckiest tragedies, and the wittiest catchphrases and if anyone ever gave us the time of day to tell our whole life history, they would agree. But they usually leave around the part where you guys leave me alone under the WORST CIRCUMSTANCES EVER to get French dip sandwiches…………and then we found your entry point and we were all cool.
You guys swear by your underground hip hop and indie electronica but when we’re together it’s always We gon’ run this town and We can’t stop cause We are young………..and like one T-Swift song cause you guys are too preoccupied with your Google Fiber conversation and I’m really slick like that.
We laugh with our enemies and chuckle when work sucks cause this life is only temporary and one day we’ll call the same 100 square feet home. But mostly cause Alex makes fat girls cry and Chris can get in the 405 lane with his eyes closed……..and like sometimes, I’m really bad at texting…
Anyways, if you guys were on the right coast today, it would’ve been the perfect Friday but you’re not so I’m crossing bridges and boundaries in hopes of getting a small taste of home, having the time of my life with the Morgan Freeman and Archer-sounding voices in my head.
In the wake of this awful cold weather, accidentally sending you my resume (which was terrifying, cause you’re going to cure cancer and I’m not) was the best decision ever made in the history of awful cold weather. September was such a treat, October was a dream, and November is going to be better. Here’s to another month of biased memories and making up stories that never happened!
Remember when we found ourselves walking alone in the 16th close to 4am without any shoes on
I never before had anyone cry for me, which is why I reacted the way I did. The text you sent me (on that stupid holiday that I was convinced I no longer pertained to) touched me in a way that I will never forget for as along as I live. Life was shit, but the people in it were not. And while the rest of the world eventually moved on, you were the single person willing to wait. You have been so patient. And that has been the most important thing anyone has ever done for me.
Bad things that happen when we’re apart: you get sick, you can’t go to work, 97% of NASA can’t go to work, the Clippers get jerseys with sleeves, I spend too much money on coffee cause your Starbucks app is never there, my room gets too messy cause there is no one to fold my clothes, my legs get sore cause there is no one to drive me around, but most importantly, there is no nurse. I hope the universe learns its lesson and by this day next year, we will be no more than 4 hours and 15 minutes apart.
So I never called you back like I said I would but for the record, I paid a lot of fake money to get you that fake nurse. That is all I can afford right now but one day, on a birthday you’ll never expect, it will be a real nurse. A British nurse with a business degree from Oxford, who dances recreationally to the Harry Potter soundtrack, thinks the Newsroom is a good show (mostly because of Olivia Munn), and isn’t really into podcasts but will give it a try if the wait at Boiling Crab is too long. Whether it will be a female nurse, I can’t say.
Why we always have to be so far apart—I don’t know. Maybe so that I can finally learn to walk in heels and you can grow to appreciate me. Maybe so I can discover my own snooty and elite taste in music (without any interference) and you can grow to appreciate me. Just kidding. I’ve always screamed high society.
But in all seriousness, you went through L.A. traffic four times in one day because I wanted Baco Mercat. And I’m pretty sure you’re the only reason the 85% cacao industry is still in business. But most importantly, you know how to change a tire. I should never complain but I always do and you always listen and that’s why we are best friends (not because I’m expecting to mooch off of your imminent success and high-rise apartments).
And according to the misreadings of some very stupid people, I guess it’s Happy Birthday to me too cause 23 years ago today, I either crawled out of the same womb with you, or gave birth to you.
You had me at “you lost weight.” For every hippity hoppity hotel lobby with a photobooth, there is a hip hop rooftop bar playing top 20s from 2010. For every fourth grader that has a crush on a third grader, there is a fifth grader ready to destroy it. And then pay for it. For every guy trying to pay the check, there is a waitress that won’t let him. Where there is love there is hate and where there is drama there is Giordano. We are so good together but we are best when you are wearing a shirt with sleeves. We drink our lemonade sans alcohol and and never wake up when we say we are. When we first met I was fat and you were skinny. Thanks for teaching me that people change. If there is a 22-year-old that is making you feel uncomfortable, you know how to handle it. Or you won’t. Which is why I will. Until then, see you in 21st Century Foreign Policy! #ofcasc
On keeping a notebook or We should've just gone to San Francisco
I would like to believe that my dread then was for the human condition, but of course it was for me, because I wanted a baby and did not then have one and because I wanted to own the house that cost $1,000 a month to rent and because I had a hangover.
every Thursday night for the rest of my life would be spent winning dance bets, celebrating with fruity Japanese drinks, walking the entire length of 14th street before settling in at the same place we watch every game, every time. Gummy bears and a couple of cans of cheap beer if we’re feeling lucky. I can’t say I am particularly glad to be a whole country’s width apart during this pivotal point in our creative careers. On the other hand, who knows how many more mistakes I can afford before you guys decide to ditch the smack-talkin, lots-of-nonsense amateur?
The Superbowl is Sunday. Perhaps you’ve heard. Upping the ante on the usual mayoral-fruit-basket-bet are each cities’ public libraries: the SFPL and the Enoch Pratt Free Library.
“If the 49ers win on Sunday (which, let’s face it, they will), Pratt Library CEO Carla Hayden must recite George Sterling’s iconic San Francisco poem, “The Cool, Grey City of Love” in Baltimore’s Central Library Main Hall while wearing a 49ers jersey.
If the Ravens win (which, how adorable), the San Francisco city librarian Luis Herrera will have to recite Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” in the atrium of the San Francisco Main Library wearing a Ravens jersey” [SFist.com].
“The shock of the twenties is how narrow that window of experience really is, and how inevitable it seems both at the time and afterward. At some point, it is late, too late, and you are standing on the sidewalk outside somewhere very loud. A wind is blowing. It’s the same cool, restless late-night breeze that blew on trampled nineteen-twenties lawns, dazed sixties streets, and anywhere young people gather. Nearby, someone who doesn’t smoke is smoking. An attractive stranger with a lightning laugh jaywalks between cars with a friend, making eye contact before scurrying inside. You’re far from home. It’s quiet. All at once, you have a thrilling sense of nowness, of the sheer potential of a verdant night with all these unmet people in it. For a long time after that, you think you’ll never lose this life, those dreams. But that was, as they say, then”—http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/atlarge/2013/01/14/130114crat_atlarge_heller?currentPage=all (via s3photo)
IT IS OKAY TO TAKE ME FOR GRANTED. I know when you fall in love with someone you will completely forget about me. That hurts my feelings, but it is okay. Please try to remember to text me, if you can, if you know, I have something going on in my life, like a work promotion or something.
Sometimes I wish I was Mindy Kaling, but then my jokes would surpass yours and our relationship would be really awkward. At least we excel in the mediocre humor level that we are at. Bring it 2013. Wahoiiii to songs that give us butterflies and crying like a baby! Who knew that you and I could ever agree on the car playlist. Look at us being all civil and grown up. THIS IS 23!
NO TWO PEOPLE ARE BETTER THAN US. We fucking rock. No one can beat us.
Keeping it fresh on the same page since ninth grade day one when you taught me how to play Big 2 for the first time and I kicked your ass. I haven’t laughed this hard via chat since I was saruhnessx3 and you were aflex. JK. We always have this much fun.